Perfection
by DarkBlaziken
Summary: FE7 Giftfic. Even the masterpiece had once been fallible...


**A/N:** Well, happy birthday Wil/Absol! I couldn't think of what else to give you, 'cos you drawing is better than mine, and i am hopeless at composing. So, since you gave me a fic for my birthday, here's one in return? And sorry, because i don't think it's much of a surprise anymore, you saw it... a BIT of it. Anyway, my fics aren't as good as yours:P And it's pretty short.

I'm posting this a few days early because it's not a very happy fic...don't want to spoil your mood for your birthday.

By the way, couldn't think of an appropriate name... Anyways, enjoy! T, you can give me suggestions for the title & summary if you want.

* * *

**_Perfection_**

She was a cloaked figure, hurrying down the dark alleyway.

She didn't know where she was going, or where she wanted to go. She just had a sense of foreboding, something that urged her to leave the place as soon as possible.

It was pitch black. Tentatively she produced a staff, muttered some incantations, and the gem on the staff started glowing brightly, lighting up the entire alley. She mumbled another string of words, and slowly the light dimmed until it was only a small circle of light surrounding her. Plucking up courage, she continued down the eerie, silent road.

Her heart was thumping in her mouth. Why was it that she kept sensing that someone was following her? When she turned around, there was not a single presence of life. Not a creature was in sight. Thinking that she had imagined it, she started moving again, though the strange sense of fear did not dissipate.

If only she had considered that it was because she had not imagined it.

For just as she had barely travelled more than a couple of steps, a group of masked figures emerged from nowhere, encircling her, blocking her path. Being the skilled magic user she was, she whipped out her tome and shot a series of icy whirlwinds at the oncoming bandits, who were instantly turned to glistening ice statues. Knowing that the freezing effect of the Fimbulvetr was temporary, she did not waste a single moment and tore down the street.

It was not long before she had to pause for breath, for she never possessed good stamina. The bandits might be gaining on her at any moment. Breathless as she was, she could not help noticing that her Torch staff was growing weaker: it could shatter at any moment. Having regained some energy, she continued running.

But the bandits were catching up. Soon, she could hear shouts from behind her of "there she is!" Furthermore, she was losing speed. She no longer had enough energy to maintain her pace. It did not help when all of a sudden, the dimming light of her staff snuffed out. The staff shook violently before the gem cracked with a loud crackle and it lay still, limp and useless.

No longer having a light to guide her, she groped about frantically in the dark. The bandits seemed to have better night vision, and were gaining on her quickly. Out of her panic she tripped over a pebble, falling flat on the cold, hard stone pavement. The last thing she remembered was a rough pair of hands tying her up, and she knew no more.

---

"Never," she rasped, her hazel eyes blazing with hatred, her hair wild, giving her a demented look. She was still bound firmly, but had an addition of bruises on her face and arms.

"Why, you've got some nerve, you little—" a strong, muscular man raised his whip threateningly, but a black-robed, turbaned man beside him held up his hand, and he fell silent, retreating back into the shadows.

The black-robed man surveyed her, before speaking in a persuasive tone, "Look. You have the information I need, and if you cooperate, I'll make sure that you will get to share my power when I rule the world. Now, _tell me how to get to the dragon's world._" There was a look of pure evil on him, a dangerous, intimidating look. She suddenly had the mad urge to tear out his turban and destroy whatever that it hid, possibly his magic source. However, she knew that unavoidable death was imminent, and knew what she had to do.

"I would rather die than tell you that, Nergal. I'd never help you!" she replied coolly, though her insides were squirming with fear. But what was certain could not be avoided…

Nergal's face contorted with anger and for one moment she thought that he was swooping down on her like a raptor. However, his face twisted into an ugly smile and commanded, "Bring the boy here. It's time for him to show if he is worthy of the Black Fang."

With an unpleasant jolt in her stomach she understood Nergal's intention. "Kill me as you wish, Nergal, but don't taint the boy's soul, rip it apart from emotions like what you did to yours," she hissed.

"Emotions are useless," Nergal said dismissively. "They make you vulnerable, weak and foolish. I advise you tocare more about yourself. I'll give you _one last chance_." His eyes were narrowed dangerously.

"No," she spat, her voice firm, full of loathing. "You are worse than a monster, to rip the boy's soul! You will pay for it. Elimine will not let your evil deed go on forever."

"We'll see," Nergal said ominously. Right on cue, a lavender-haired youth in his teens brought a boy who looked no older than seven, with blood-red hair and eyes. He was fingering a pair of gleaming, curved daggers nervously.

"You know the rule of the Fang, don't you, Jaffar?" Nergal prompted the boy.

"No one leaves the Fang alive," the boy named Jaffar said defiantly, though he was evidently petrified of what he was going to do. The purple-haired teen gave him a slight push, and he obliged.

It was over in a flash. The next moment, torrents of blood spurted out everywhere, staining the cold dungeon floor, drenching Jaffar's arms. Nergal watched, a grim look of satisfaction on his face. The purple-haired adolescent's face was impassive, mixed with the slightest hint of disgust and pity.

"Your skill is remarkable," Nergal commented, apparently unaware of the fact that Jaffar was shaking uncontrollably. "Incredible for a first kill, don't you think? But there are some things that need to be corrected," he finally seemed to notice how much Jaffar was trembling. "_Emotions,_" he deliberately placed great emphasis on the word, and continued, "I have too many assassins weakened by emotions. To allow that to ruin such a great skill…I'd be repeating my mistake, won't I, Hurricane?" he suddenly turned around to face the lavender-haired teen, who gave a tiny jerk of his head in consent, apparently still quite repulsed by the kill.

Satisfied, Nergal turned his attention to the corpse. "She has no value to me anymore in terms of information, but it's such a waste not to…" He raised his hands over the corpse, and with a sweep of his hand seemed to suck out a blood red substance, neither gas nor liquid but seemingly both, from the body. As he did so, the body slowly became less and less opaque, until when he finally absorbed all the substance, it dematerialised, vanishing mysteriously.

Nergal muttered a string of strange-sounding incantations that would have made the hairs on the back on anyone's neck stand, while making swift sweeping motions in the air with his hands. Finally, he released the substance he had gathered from the corpse just now, and as the crimson essence poured from his hands it pulled together, vaguely resembling some humanoid shape.

Then, it transformed; it was now human in appearance, yet the aura surrounding it made it oddly inhuman. It now bore the appearance of the dead sage, more beautiful, yet more terrible: the warm brown eyes were replaced by cold, emotionless golden ones, giving it a deadened look. Its skin was so pale, it could have been a bloodless walking corpse. It was perfect in every retrospect, the perfect human; yet there was something lacking, the human warmth, the human _emotions_. Nergal however did not appear to have realised; he was studying it with great satisfaction.

"Beautiful quintessence…and my masterpiece of all morphs. Perfection can only go this far…Limstella!" he commanded.

The pair of icy, unseeing eyes stared back at him, so much in contrast to the expressive eyes of the real Limstella's; a voice, not the one full of life and feelings, but a flat, emotionless one, escaped from the morph, an empty shell:

"I await you orders, milord."

* * *

Hope it was okay! Guy gave me comments for it. I think Hector read it too. And by the way, a CERTAIN "lavender-haired teen" was added on SOMEONE's request. I don't know, tried to make him contrast with the 7-year-old Jaffar(impassive vs scared)...

I hope that bit enlightened the mood a little. I mean, Jaffar with emotions and everything. But hey, no one is born an emotionless git. I assume Nergal trained him.

Yep, 10 years before FE7, I assume, Nergal made Limstella into a morph. I assume you always need to kill someone, get their quintessence before you can turn them into a morph. Like the final chapter, Lloyd/Linus/Kenneth/whoever morphs.

Comments are appreciated as always, from everyone! But it's not necessary, really, if you don't feel like it.


End file.
